Engineer, Engineer
by InkWorthy
Summary: Two years after their last brush with the Labyrinth, the Summerskill sisters are pulled back into the madness that surrounds it. (Sequel to The Pin and the Casket, amalgam retelling of Hellraiser 4, 5 and a touch of 6. Pinsty and Joey/Terri.)
1. Chapter 1

It was 2 AM, again, and John Merchant was still awake, _again._

He was a man fixated, like a moth to a flame. He knew his wife was at home waiting; he knew he hadn't told his son goodnight, but it was impossible to tear his attention away from his discovery - no, his revelation. The man circled the crack again, as he had every night this week, and knelt down. His fingers traced over the cracks, and beneath them -

It was like a siren's song.

Something had _changed_ here. The museum fiasco had been barely a week ago - six days and he'd been studying this for five - and he had never needed to know something the way he ached to understand this. The museum basement looked the same as it had before the exhibit, save for a spilled cup of coffee that had long dried and this long crack in the concrete, shallow and barely noticeable save for the light.

Was he the only one who could see its light? His guards (two were missing) shrugged it off, said it must have been there before, but he knew, he _knew._ Something special had happened here, something to do with his designs. That light seeped through and beckoned to him even now, even as he fiddled with the remote he'd put together over the past few days.

Metal shifted around him, stubborn in its grinding movements. He pressed a button and a mechanism turned, and white light spilled from its designs towards the cracks.

 _"Yes,"_ he whispered, watching the glow grow brighter, grow hungrier. It was working. He didn't know what it was, not truly, but it was working.

Of course he knew what his _machines_ were. They were old designs, put together in rough drafts, too good to scrap but too jarring to place with the rest of his displays. Some were born of sketches, some were revised again and again, one wall was based on the most distinct drawing of his ancestor, the first toymaker in the family, Phillip LeMarchand. John knew what he had made, but he did not know what it was doing now, and he _needed_ to know. He needed the knowledge like air.

Another shift, another groan. John grinned, pushing his hair back from his face. The song of metal and magic was in his blood - he _remembered_ this, something passed down into his veins that had waited so patiently. Everything moved, and turned, and with one _click_ he knew it was complete. John turned to face the crack, and it split open.

White light flooded his eyes; he covered them but it did nothing, as he felt blinded by everything else as well. Wind and wails screamed into his ears; there was a dull thud on the inside of his skull that pounded harder with each sound. He stepped forward, towards the light, beckoned by its horror and its impossibility. He reached out a hand, and though he could not see, he could feel as another hand took his.

And all at once, he remembered.

He remembered stories, old journals of an ancestor who'd come up with the first designs, desperate to shut the door he'd opened. He'd visited those writings - puzzle boxes and patterns, wealthy nobles and portals to unknown Hells.

If John were a religious man he'd have been frightened; if he'd gotten enough sleep, perhaps he'd have noticed how closely his designs had come to some of the mad sketches in LeMarchand's later journals, not out of art but of desperation. If he'd gone home and had a good night's rest, perhaps he might have thought to look deeper, to ask questions of this wonder - this light - before he started playing with it.

The hand closed around his; he was pulled into a pair of arms, and the hands cupped his face.

If John hadn't been so fixated on the light, perhaps he'd have remembered the girl who'd been so afraid of his designs.

Kirsty.

He opened his eyes and screamed until the world went black.

The light spilled back into the crack and it sealed shut. He collapsed to his knees, to the floor, and fell onto his side. He stayed there, a rag-doll, for an eternity. His ragged breath slowed; his jackhammer pulse tapered out into something steady. Around him the machines groaned once more; they fell back into place, their original positions, and the remote sparked where it lay beside his hand. The world shifted back into place, reality resetting, and then all was silent.

John Merchant's eyes opened. He got up.

His wife and son were asleep, he thought, but he would be there when they woke. He stood there for several minutes, stock-still in the silence, and thought. Then he started for the exit.

He would need sleep, he thought, and he would need to talk to his wife in the morning. There was much to be discussed.

* * *

 _SO I figured out where I wanted to start with this one and wanted to get it down, but updates on this will be slow as I work out the rest of the plot. In the meantime, I've got an update for Reconstructed in the works, so look out for that soon!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Ayyyyyyyy_

 _So I'm going to try for more of a slow burn with this, key word being try. That means slightly shorter chapters, but hopefully more attention to detail, buildup, and plot. Here's hoping it works!_

 _As always, be kind and stay spooky! - Inky_

* * *

In darkness and silence, a figure knelt. Head facing the floor, eyes closed and arms folded, sins and form laid bare. Bereft of tools, bereft of robes, bereft of pride. Void dominated; absence reined supreme. In this moment there was nothing, nothing but shame, but vulnerability.

This moment had stretched on for eternity, or so it seemed; the solitary figure had spent so long in meditation that he was no longer certain. He knew only his focus and his shame, and that shame was something he had spent this eternity exploring, understanding, reconciling with himself. In the darkness there was little but his own thoughts; they twisted and grew longer, shorter, more eloquent even as the subject matter never changed. This was his punishment, to be trapped within himself, and he bore it with the dignity and solemn reverence of a Prince.

The darkness was pierced only once before; a visitor stepped forward bathed in impossible and all-consuming light, and forced him to look up, to meet its gaze. For three seconds he was forced to stare into the eyes of the one he had failed, betrayed, forsaken. Guilt cut through him as a blade never could then; he felt an overwhelming ache to weep.

 _One year,_ he'd known then, eyes downcast and closed one more, he had endured his punishment for one year. He was a year into his isolation and prayer.

When had that been? Had he been left here? The ghost of wild darkness whispered doubt in his ear, _I've been left here, just as I was left in the trenches._

Something calmer, more human yet somehow not echoed back _I was found then. I returned home. I shall return home from this._

Once, long ago, they had been severed from each other. In the beginning of this penance he had known a new hell, two halves not quite completing each other and struggling to fit each other dominating his mind. Inaudible noise had flooded the silence with a unique and infuriating isolation, trapped with himself and himself and himself. Now at last the pieces were together; though in conflict at moments, he was one, not two halves but a single, polished stone with a distinct flaw that cast light in different directions but remained in one piece.

He knew, in the depths of his meditation, that he would never be the same. But perhaps that wasn't such a tragedy. Perhaps that was an opportunity to learn, to understand.

To grow.

The darkness was pieced and light overtook him. There was no sound to the footsteps that approached, but once more he felt hands on his face, scarred and bare of his crown.

 _My son._ He opened his eyes; his soul wept in awe of the one before him.

"My Leviathan," he whispered, and one hand passed over his eyes and closed them. The overwhelming sight was gone but he still held his breath; his god deserved no less than utter devotion.

 _You have remained here._ The hand passed over his pale head. _Your mind is whole whole once more._

"And wholly yours," he responded, head bowing. Like a sound-wave he felt it; a tremor in his chest that might have been a thoughtful hum.

 _Indeed. But there is another._ Images flashed before his mind; brown curls, pale skin. A bright and curious smile. _You have given of yourself._

He remained silent, but the silence was overbearing in a way he'd never dreamt. He nodded and felt another deep tremor, too deep to hear.

 _You love her?_ A question, a rarity on its own; a flash of panic in his chest. _My son._

"Yes," he finally said, and even as his body remained rigid his pulse quickened, just for a moment. "I do. I am sorry."

 _Time has changed you, My son. Time changes us all._ Grief, shame, agony. He had failed. _But change is not always loss._

"I don't understand," he whispered, for even in his devotion he could never truly comprehend the will of his father, his creator, his god.

 _Your devotion did not waver then. It will not waver now._ The hands pulled away, and his chest suddenly felt tight. There was a burning in the skin on his torso; he felt quite heavy. _You will return to your duties, My son, and Time shall show its hand in due course._

The figure was gone, and at last - after moments of shock and silence - he opened his eyes. Silver pinpricks danced at the corners of his vision; he was clad in black.

He was forgiven. The Cenobite Prince allowed himself one moment of humanity, in the form of a disbelieving gasp, barely more than a breath. Then he rose to his feet and stepped out of the darkness, into the winding halls of the Labyrinth, and looked up. His god cast impossible light overhead, and as he watched the Prince folded his arms behind his back and began to walk.

There was much to be done.


	3. Chapter 3

It was lunch break, and Kirsty was staring off into space and barely minding the mug in her hands. It was decaf - over the past two years she'd been slowly weaning herself from coffee, trying to get more sleep, trying to get healthy again. It helped that she no longer had guilty dreams; the same nightmare over and over, of those blue eyes staring at her while red seeped from the throat of the man she loved.

Two years of silence. It was almost an absurd notion, but Kirsty was worried for him. Was he just not able to reach her? Had he been punished for the way he'd been while broken apart? Was he still in recovery from that, after all this time? Kirsty sighed and took a sip of her decaf. She could hear chatter around the water cooler.

Part of her dared to worry if he'd lost interest, but she chose not to believe that; if death itself hadn't been enough to dissuade him, if he'd loved her even when he was broken in half... she took another sip. No, it was something else. She'd go to bed tonight and try to reach him again; she never dreamt of him on her own, so if she did see him, it _would_ be him. Kirsty didn't know how she was sure, but she was.

In the meantime, her dreams had shifted. She mostly dreamt of darkness; a floating, comforting darkness, with no beginning or end, where opening or closing her eyes made no difference. Sometimes she saw shapes, massive and indistinct, and yet she was never afraid. That was what normal people dreamt of, she supposed, abstract oddness with no meaning or horrific memories. She'd take the darkness.

Somebody sat down next to her and started working on a sandwich. She didn't look away from the wall, even as they remarked about being thirsty. Normally Joey and Tiffany ate with her, but they were out on a big story - oddly enough, at the very museum where she'd last seen him. She'd have to ask how Mr. Merchant was doing, and if he seemed to think they had anything to do with - well, everything with Angelique.

Actually, she'd have to ask him about that t-

"I said, how's it going, Kirsty?"

"Ah!" She was yanked out of her thoughts and finally turned to face the person next to her. "Sorry, I was thinking about something," she started, but sighed as he laughed.

"I can see that!" Trevor smiled at her, a smile that was charming and matched his blue eyes well. She'd noticed them the first time they'd met earlier that year; granted, they reminded her of the Captain. She smiled at Trevor, and he shook his head. "Didn't even hear me the first time. You working on the next big story?"

"Y-yeah," she lied, "yeah, just going over some of the details. Editing and all that."

"Yeah? You must be pretty good at it, I can't do that in my head." Trevor had been dropping little lines like that almost from day one, and Kirsty was never sure if it was flirting or just being nice. She hoped it was the latter, because declining in the case of the former was going to be its own form of hell. "You like the job, Kirsty? You do a lot of work, but you've always got this serious look on your face."

"It's my thinking face." She smiled. "Yeah, I like it. It's a lot of work, but it challenges me. I never thought of myself as a writer before I started, but you surprise yourself, you know?"

"Really? You write some great stuff, I always guessed you were a natural at it." That made her smile, and as she saw another figure approach, she nodded.

"She makes it easier. What took you so long?" Terri set down the two subway sandwiches she'd brought with her, and Kirsty took hers with a grin.

"There was this guy at the place who needed to have the different kinds of cheese explained to him. Spoke perfect English, it wasn't a language thing, he just did not seem to understand the concept of multiple cheeses." She dove into her meatball sub with little more than a nod towards Trevor, which was about the usual for her. "We should do our next spotlight story on that - "weird things to not understand". We can post it online, too, see how it explodes there."

"You might be on to something with that." Terri had joined the team after about a year of bouncing from job to job, determined to pull her weight in the family she'd accidentally joined that night. Kirsty was happy to have her, as was Tiffany. Joey seemed almost thrilled to have her in the fold - she wasn't a Summerskill sister just yet, but Kirsty couldn't imagine the last two years without her.

"I could film," Trevor offered, "and help with editing. The camera footage, not the writing."

"I'll have to talk to the big man in charge," Kirsty said, and all three looked at each other, "but I think we could do something. Maybe a piece on the education system?"

"And why they don't give lessons in common sense. I'm game." Kirsty started answering Terri when her phone buzzed - and so did Terri's. They both looked at their screens, then each other.

"It's the group chat," Kirsty said, pulling it open. It was from Joey.

"Damn, we just got started with our sandwiches, too," Terri said, "think we can push for fifteen minutes?"

"What's wrong?" Trevor asked, and Kirsty sighed. She nodded at Terri, a silent "I'll do it" to answering his question.

"Remember that story we tried to do with the museum? Apparently something's come up. Joey wants us to check it out." A pause. "...We're going to need a camera." She opened the picture Joey had attached and showed it to Trevor.

"Whoa."

"Yeah," Terri said, looking at it. "I thought they sealed that up." It was the crack in the concrete from when they'd last opened the door - torn open into a fissure, and looking to be sticky with something like tar.


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh, _whoa."_

"My thoughts exactly." Joey watched Terri crouch down near the fissure with some caution; standing over her was Kirsty, who was staring at the tar-like goop. There was confusion in her eyes. "Any ideas, Kirsty?"

"I have no idea," Kirsty said, "It's not red enough to be the usual stuff I'd expect... did the concrete _melt?"_ Terri reached towards it, but stopped before touching the substance. It bubbled under her fingertips, and she pulled back as it swelled with a heavy, bulbous pop.

"That is _so_ weird." Terri, at least, seemed excited by the prospect of whatever it was. "It smells kind of sulfur-y, I think. And..." she sniffed, frowning. "Sweet, too. Like perfume."

"Great." Kirsty looked at Joey and shook her head. "I can't begin to guess what this is, I'd have to ask him."

"The owner?" Oh, right, Trevor was here. Joey and Kirsty both looked up at him, but Kirsty spoke first.

"Yeah," she said, looking to Joey and nodding, "he was the one who reached out to us, right?" Joey nodded, and looked back at Trevor. She was grateful he'd supplied the excuse himself, however unwittingly, because explaining the truth - including who they were referring to - would have been a nightmare.

She could only imagine how Kirsty would feel about it.

"Apparently this crack was left over from the incident two years ago, but there's been no other strange activity until now - Terri, can you please get away from that?" Terri had reached towards it again, and she looked up at Joey with wide eyes.

"It's warm!" She said, and Joey wanted to pull her away personally, but she finally propped herself up with her hands on her knees, dusting off her tattered jeans as she did. "There's heat coming off if it, like some sort of floor soup. Think we could ladle it into a bowl and send it to some science nerds?"

"It might melt whatever we tried to scoop it with," Kirsty said as Joey reached for it herself. Terri was right - it radiated heat, like a fire behind mesh or the air over a boiling pot. She furrowed her brow in disbelief.

"But there's no light... the owner said it was concrete all the way down."

"And it is." All three women looked up; Joey was the first to recognize Merchant, but he looked different, somehow. Well-rested, well-kept, formally dressed - a far cry from the man they'd met so briefly two years before. Tiffany was walking next to him, as she'd left to find him before Kirsty and her entourage arrived. "Thank you for coming on such short notice." Joey helped Terri to her feet, while Kirsty had already walked over to shake Mr. Merchant's hand.

"It's no problem, sir, but... we are a little confused." Kirsty looked back at Joey, Tiffany and Terri, who nodded in agreement. "Why call us instead of the authorities?"

"Oh, they're aware of the issue," Mr. Merchant's smile was pleasant, serene, "no doubt you saw all of the yellow tape as you came in. I called you because you were there when the initial incident occurred, and I was hoping you'd have some input on this turn of events." He turned his attention to Trevor, who was still looking at the fissure and seemed to be on the verge of poking it with his foot. "Although I don't believe we have met, young man."

"Me?" He looked up and took a step back, clearing his throat. "Trevor Gooden, sir. I'm their cameraman."

"Ah." Mr. Merchant looked back to the three of them. "We have plenty of cameras at the ready, although it seems their signal was intercepted at some point during the power outage. Perhaps Mr. Gooden would be willing to help with this investigation?" Trevor smiled, and out of the corner of her eye Joey saw Kirsty's shoulders sag.

"Can do!" Kirsty looked at Joey and signed _he's been flirting with me again and I don't know how to deal with it,_ and Joey signed back _we'll figure it out._ Tiffany giggled, but kept her words to herself as Mr. Gooden continued.

"Wonderful. Now, if you don't mind, I would like a word alone with these young ladies about what they witnessed that night. In the meantime..." Joey registered the sound of heels clicking against concrete, and looked to the stair.

"Oh, wow," Kirsty muttered under her breath, and Joey had to agree - the woman coming down was quite pretty, with perfect makeup and sculpted blonde curls that looked right out of a magazine. She made her way down, arms full of paperwork, and joined Mr. Merchant's side.

"Perfect timing, Isabella," Mr. Merchant said, taking the files from her hands, "I was about to go looking for you. These are the young ladies I was telling you about." Isabella turned and smiled at Joey, who felt her heart flutter a touch in her chest. She had such pretty brown eyes, and she smiled at Joey before turning completely towards them.

"It's nice to meet you," she said, walking towards Joey and offering a hand, "I'm Isabella. You must be the Summerskill sisters."

"And guest." Trevor cut in, but Joey didn't mind him, instead just shaking Isabella's hand. She smiled again at Joey, and the other girls, before turning to Mr. Merchant. "What did you need from me, Mr. Merchant?"

"I was going to have you fill in our friend Mr. Gooden over here regarding the incident," he said, and as Isabella turned to face him Terri spoke up.

"Actually, mind if I join? I wasn't there for some of it, but I can fill in some gaps." Joey nodded at Terri - no doubt she wanted to help, but there was also no doubt that both she and Joey were uncomfortable leaving this woman alone with Trevor, who hadn't quite earned their trust.

"That works just fine," Mr. Gooden said, "Now, would the rest of you come with me?" Joey looked over in time to see Trevor follow Terri and Isabella, looking slightly miffed, while Kirsty let out a small sigh of relief as the three sisters were led upstairs.

She couldn't help but cast one more cursory glance below, and she swore the crevice pulsed a bit, like an open wound.


	5. Chapter 5

The Cenobite Prince fell back into his duties with a practiced ease he'd desperately needed. Flesh was familiar; the blending of pain and pleasure were a welcome reprieve from the silence of his penance, even if his standards has changed since the Incident. He found the unwilling to be uninteresting; perhaps it was Elliott clinging to some notion of mercy, but even that could not quell his curiosity. No, he was drawn to the most enthusiastic students, those who truly understood the box and wished to succumb to all his world had to offer. His own curiosity was rejuvenated; in a way he was more devout to his learnings than ever before.

He thought of this as he ventured downwards, beyond the veil of thunder that crackled along the Labyrinth's surface, beyond the door to his own chambers. A winding staircase carried him into a darker layer, and he walked forward, certain that what he sought would present itself to him. In due time, he would find a door, so indistinct from the wall that only a trained eye could find it.

He did; the secret lay in the pattern of the masonry, a seam so thin as to seem inconsequential. A small crack down the centermost stone waited for him, and the Prince pressed his bare finger to it, allowing the edge to pierce his skin and draw a drop of dark, thick blood. He hummed at the sensation, but before he could properly savor it the door split apart and pulled back, making way for him to enter. He stepped in, and crossed his chest with both arms. It was only right when entering a holy place.

The doors slid shut behind him, and the Cenobite Prince allowed himself a moment to admire the architecture of the mausoleum. Truly, this was proof of Leviathan's majesty; a divine temple of the dead, the walls adorned with murals of those before. The ceiling was low, and his predecessors stared down at him as he walked through amongst the tombs.

Each was of a different make, some stone, some glass, some little more than urns and some bound in chains that seemed worn and well-tested; indeed, some of those here had not been dead when they arrived. Even so, they were laid to rest here, and as he took it all in the Cenobite Prince mused that he might one day lie among them, the former favorites. The thought did not frighten him, as he had tasted death and found it peaceful; no, the only thought that dismayed him was that he might greet his eternal rest alone.

After all, the Children of Leviathan and the Labyrinth were always buried here in pairs.

The Cenobite Prince walked past a great stone tomb, covered in chains both new and broken; the Wrathful Son, he mused, who had broken from his grave four times before the mother Labyrinth was forced to strike him down. It was only the rest of his beloved, the Dutiful, that finally pushed him to accept his eternal slumber and allow the next generation's Children to come forth. Over the tomb, the mural depicted his claws sinking into the ground; the Labyrinth was represented with a great wave crashing down, that blue light at its heart. Every pair was treated as such; their murals reflected their lives, and the tombs reflected their deaths.

It was this history that drew him further in, further up, to where the newest tombs waited. He ached for history, for knowledge; even more so, he felt he needed to be here, that there was something he needed to see, though he knew not what.

Such was fanciful thinking, but the Prince knew when he was taking a fancy too far. He ventured further to the surface, to the youngest tombs, knowing that the memorials of Anqelique and her beloved, their true names lost to disgrace and scraped from living memory, lay in wait above.

The one thing he disliked about the tombs was the dust; the oldest memorials were coated in it, and even as he ascended the stair he kicked up clouds of fine gray, leaving thin lines on the banister. As he reached the second floor he noted that though the dust was thinner here, it was still present; even Angelique's open coffin was coated, though some had been displaced.

Angelique. He felt a pang of sympathy as he approached the masterpiece of a memorial to the former Daughter of the Labyrinth, stained glass panelling along rich marble depicting her true form, or some interpretation thereof. She had been denied even this; the coffin sat empty, as it would for all eternity, hers in name but not in practice. Such was the price of treachery, it seemed. Now she was at the mercy of the Labyrinth, lost somewhere within its depths, a prisoner of her own kingdom.

"I wonder what your name was," he mused, eyes trailing over the ornate coffin. Beside her lay a coffin of similar make; and looking upon it the Prince felt something akin to awe. This contained the body of his direct predecessor, the former Child of Leviathan and Angelique's lover; the Prince knew precious little about the Judge, though his readings stated that Angelique and her beloved had conspired to shape all of the Labyrinth in their own image and were struck down for it. What a shame, to reject the gifts of their father; and what a shame that he would never know more of what came before him, only a marble coffin with dust pooling on one side of its curved hood.

The Prince held onto that thought before he processed it fully. When it did panic seized his chest, though his composure did not break. Instead he carefully strode to the other side and stared, unsure if what he was seeing was correct.

It was; the dust had pooled into the sip closer to Angelique's tomb, almost as if it had slid right off the top of the lid. He bent down, and in the dim light he saw something else; ten small spots where the marble was damaged, dug into like claws. Ten spots, five on the top, five on the bottom.

The Cenobite Prince looked around, and for the first time noticed the other footsteps in the dust; frantic, scattered, as if somebodyhad been desperately seeking something. The footsteps meshed with his down the staircase, and he turned back to the coffin.

Suddenly, that ache for knowledge was not so pleasant.

"Leviathan forgive me," he murmured, "but I must be sure." He reached forward and pushed on the marble lid, and with some resistance it gave way.

A cloud of dust burst through the opening, but through the gray the Cenobite Prince could see a monstrous silhouette, perfectly outlined in dust, against the bottom of the empty coffin.

* * *

 _... Wow. 2 Chapters in the span of a day. I must have eaten something good._


End file.
